Intercepted

by Alexa Martin

  Suffice to say, I’m not the most talented singer in the world. But what I lack in talent, I make up for in volume and chutzpah.

  I don’t go full on Rent, but I have to buy my own shoes.

  Three hours, one dress, one matching bra and panty set, two pairs of shoes, three shades of red lipstick, and a necklace later, I’m broke.

  I’m also going to the fashion show.

  Curse you, Nordstrom, and your wide selection.

  We’re also ordering lunch.

  “Naomi, we aren’t at a Lady Mustangs meeting. I swear if you order a side salad and reach for anything on my plate, I’ll shank you.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m getting the bacon burger and fries. Hangovers are a valid excuse to break your diet. Lettuce doesn’t absorb booze; you can only count on carbs to get that job done. Speaking of Mustangs meetings”—Naomi closes the menu and looks to me with a sparkle only good gossip can put in her eyes—“did I tell you what happened on Wednesday?”

  “Oh lord.” I settle on the chicken sandwich and put my menu down. “You didn’t, but I’m not having a hard time imagining it.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Brynn slams her hand on the table. “What the hell is a Lady Mustang?”

  Sweet girl, so innocent from the horrors and cattiness of NFL wives.

  “The charity group run by the Mustang players’ wives. The cause is good, but somewhere it went a little haywire.” Naomi fills her in.

  “By somewhere, she means Courtney Matthews. The evil other half of Kevin Matthews,” I whisper across the table in case any Nosy Nelly’s are sitting nearby.

  “Got it . . . start talking.” Brynn motions for Naomi to start her story. I mean, the girl owns a bar; she’s not one to shy away from juicy gossip.

  “Okay. So Courtney starts the meeting with the bang of her stupid glitter gavel. Yeah, she has a gavel,” she says to Brynn, whose eyes have already doubled in size. “And she goes, ‘Welcome Lady Mustangs. My fellow wives.’ She stressed ‘wives’ like that. ‘Wives, if you haven’t already heard, we’re finally back to the way we’re meant to be. I think Dorothy said it best, but I’ll give it a go: ding-dong, the girlfriend’s dumped!’”

  I laugh at the same time Brynn lets out a horrified gasp.

  “Can you believe it? And everyone’s laughing at her like she’s on Saturday Night Live or something. I’m sitting there looking at them like they’re crazy and say, ‘Pretty sure Dorothy never said that, maybe it was the brainless scarecrow.’ Like freaking Mean Girls robots, they all stop laughing at the exact same time and aim their red, glowing eyes my way. It was terrifying. I thought they might all attack me, remove my brain, and put it in a jar for Courtney to put next to the rest of theirs that are no doubt hidden somewhere in her house.”

  The waiter stops at our table to take our order, but before he gets a chance to speak, Brynn turns to him and says, “She’s in the middle of the best story I’ve ever heard, we need another minute . . . or fifteen. Please.”

  Good news for us, he’s had heart eyes for Brynn since the second we walked in, and he not-so-discreetly whispered to the hostess to seat us in his section, so instead of being insulted and maybe spitting in our food, he’s just happy he heard Brynn’s voice.

  “Okay.” Brynn looks back to Naomi when he walks away. “Continue and don’t lose any of your enthusiasm.”

  “Girl, I know you’re new, so I’ll clue you in.” Naomi sits a little taller and zooms in on Brynn. I’ve already been clued in, so I mouth the words along with her. “I tell the best stories . . . all the time.”

  I can’t take these girls anywhere.

  “Naomi ‘The Best Storyteller’ Harris, got it.” Brynn draws a checkmark in the air in front of her.

  “Got that right.” Naomi takes a deep sip of her Diet Coke. “Where was I? Oh yeah. So they’re all staring at me like I’m the enemy intruder until Courtney bangs that stupid glitter gavel on the table and all at once their heads swivel toward her like good little soldiers, and she starts the meeting. Throughout the entire meeting, every time she’d mention anything about the advertising or funds raised, I’d call out, ‘Marlee got so many donations,’ or, ‘Didn’t Marlee do a great job on the design?’ Basically, I just mentioned your name at every opportunity I could find.

  “And then . . .” She bounces in the seat so hard, it sends my chest into the metal edging of the table. “As soon as she hit the gavel for the final time, I paid my bill, stood up, and said, ‘See you next Tuesday, Court. Oops. I mean Wednesday,’ winked at her, and walked away.”

  “Shut up!” Brynn and I shout at the same time and startle the two women chatting at the table next to us.

  “I know, right! It was so good!” Naomi falls back into her seat as if she just finished running a marathon. But, to give her proper credit, she talks so fast and gives such exaggerated hand movements, it really is like she’s leading a mini Zumba class.

  “I’m not sure if I’ve told you lately, but I love you,” I say. Because when your girl drops a not-so-subtle see (C) you (U) next (N) Tuesday (T) to a group of women talking shit about you, you’re obligated to divulge your feelings. #FriendshipRule183

  “I know.” She looks at me. “But as many times as you’ve had my back, I figured it was about time I had yours.”

  “Shit.” Brynn’s gaze flickers between me and Naomi. “I need to hang with you guys more often.”

  “Ain’t that right, boo?” I ask the question I’ve asked Naomi hundreds of times.

  “True.” She raises her glass in the air and we cheers just as our waiter returns.

  Nobody orders a salad.

  Eleven

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

  I’d really do well to remember that in the future.

  Grayson, my Uber driver with an awesome knit hat and glasses with no glass, drops me off in front of Naomi and Dre, who I texted a few minutes ago letting them know I was almost there. We walk in together, like proud polygamists, while Dre, under the extreme pressure of Naomi, tells me I look beautiful.

  The second we enter the building, I run smack-dab into Mrs. Mahler, the over-Botoxed, slightly eccentric wife of the Mustangs’ owner. She’s one of the lucky few who get a free pass out of the meetings, but a front-of-the-line pass to the events.

  “Marlee, my love! Courtney told me you wouldn’t be coming tonight,” she says, her voice laced with the rasp that never leaves because of the cigarettes she’s always smoking out of her long, gold cigarette holder.

  “She must’ve heard wrong, because here I am.” I frame my face with my hands and curtsy.

  “And I’m thrilled you are, darling,” she says. She takes a long pull from her cigarette, even though there’s signage everywhere saying the venue is smoke free. “You did such a phenomenal job putting this all together. You know, even Mr. Mahler came to me discussing this year’s fashion show. Your marketing skills have been so effective, one of the boys from marketing thought he was being replaced.”

  She’s leaning in conspiratorially, which would normally make me cringe—I can’t deal with close talkers—but she’s telling me gossip that’s wrapped with compliments for my work, and I spotted Courtney watching us in the corner. Since Courtney wants to be Mrs. Mahler and she hates me, every time I laugh at something Mrs. Mahler says, I direct my smile and gaze Courtney’s way. She’s redder than a tomato and working so hard on scowling, she might just succeed. I bet Chris’s dad will be on the receiving end of a phone call requesting more Botox tomorrow.

  “Oh you’re kidding! That’s so funny and good to hear. I’m so glad you like my work and that the crowd is even bigger than I anticipated,” I say, and I’m not lying. I might not be as desperate as Courtney to be in Mrs. Mahler’s good graces, but I’d be insane if I said I’m not over-the-moon thrilled for her to like me and my work. Between her and her husband
, they have connections I could never even dream of.

  “Yes, darling. You did a wonderful job. I know that Courtney girl is trying to take credit for your work, but I wanted you to know that we all know who’s really behind tonight’s success.” She throws a wink my way before she waltzes across to the room to one of her friends.

  I look to where Courtney was standing, only to see she’s been joined by a few of the other wives. And if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not, they have flipped the script on me and all the sly looks and evil laughter are now being sent my way. They must not realize they conditioned me for this treatment during the meetings. I smile, then turn on my heel to go search for Naomi . . . and booze.

  I find Naomi and Dre by the bar, guarding an empty barstool I’m assuming is for me, and try to make it there as fast as I can without running. I’m so close, I can almost feel the leather barstools sticking to my thighs under my too-short dress, when a cold, strong hand grabs my wrist and stops me in my tracks. I turn around slowly, praying I’m wrong, but knowing I’m right, and look into the eyes of the last person I wanted to see.

  Well, the last two people I wanted to see.

  And so now, instead of being snuggled next to a bottle of tequila, I’m face-to-face with Chris and Ava, who’s wearing my ring and making my slutty-to-me dress look conservative.

  “Chris.” I try to sound like a bitch, but bitchy has never been my thing and instead I just sound kind of constipated. “Ava. Nice to see you outside of emails and with clothes on.”

  Correction, kind of with clothes on. I’ll never understand these see-through dresses women wear. What’s the point of the fabric if I can still see your underwear?

  “What are you doing here, Marlee? And why were you talking to Mahler’s wife? You better not try to fucking sabotage me because I won’t take you back.”

  Pretty boy say what?

  “I’m sorry. You must have me confused with another girlfriend who dumped you, because the one you’re talking to right now has no interest in ever getting back together with you.” I turn to Ava and look to her hand. “Nice ring. I remember when Chris gave it to me for Valentine’s Day a couple years back. It looks great on you though.”

  So maybe I’m catching on to this bitchy thing after all.

  The smile she was wearing starts to fade at the same time her cheeks brighten, but instead of directing her angry gaze at Chris, she aims it at me. Like I’m the one who gave her stolen jewelry. Don’t shoot the messenger.

  “Bitter doesn’t look good on you, sweetie.” Her voice is so high-pitched I wouldn’t be surprised if she has been solicited to lend her voice to a dog-calling app.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I mimic her. “Trust me, I’m not bitter. You saved me from making a big mistake. Actually, you know what? Find me later, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  When Brynn was doing my makeup before I came, we ran over lots of different scenarios in my head. This was the third one. I bitched and moaned when we started, but now I owe her a huge apology. Because without our practice, there’s no way I would’ve been able to come up with that comeback and sound as genuine as I did. And the look on Ava’s face when she doesn’t get the reaction she wants out of me is so satisfying.

  “You’re so full of shit. I’m the only reason you’re here and you know it,” Chris cuts in, putting the spotlight back on himself. Typical.

  “I’ve missed your overinflated ego, but now that you’ve refreshed my memory, I should be fine without you for a little while. But I’ll come find you later if I need another reminder.” I turn and make my final steps to the bar. My confident, bitchy facade fades with every step, and when I reach Naomi and Dre, they already have a tequila shot waiting.

  Without a word to either of them, I bring the tequila to my lips and throw it back, savoring the burn as it travels down my throat and warms my stomach. Good thing I like it because before I can reach for the lime, another punch is thrown.

  “Marlee. We didn’t know if you’d come tonight. I was so sad to hear about you and Chris,” Courtney says from behind me. I know she said she was sad, but it sounds a lot like gloating to me.

  I make sure my bright smile is secure on my face before turning to her. “And miss a night with you, Court? Never! Besides, Mrs. Mahler was so happy I made this event such a huge success. I would’ve hated to disappoint her.”

  Beside me, I hear Naomi snort and see Dre shaking with laughter. Courtney aims her narrowed eyes at them before shifting them back my way.

  “This was a group effort. I know you aren’t a part of the Lady Mustangs anymore, but no individual takes credit for a group effort.”

  “Trust me, Court, I know. Nobody in the Lady Mustangs would dare steal the spotlight by, say, using a glittered gavel or making sure they’re the only one to talk at events or for publicity interviews.” I glance at the time on my phone. “Which, speaking of, isn’t it almost time for you to go onstage to welcome everyone?”

  Never mind.

  I’m the queen of bitchiness.

  “This is why you were never welcomed into the group, Marlee. Because we could all see who you really are. A groupie.” She flips her long blonde curls over her shoulder. “Who shows up at a team event a week after they were dumped in a dress two sizes too small and more makeup than a stripper on a Saturday night?”

  I know I should be offended, but I can only focus on one part of her evil villain speech.

  “Strippers wear a lot of makeup? I knew about glitter and stuff, but not the makeup. And why more on Saturday nights? I’d think Mondays and Fridays would be just as busy.” I look to Naomi and Dre for their opinion. “Right? Don’t you think they’d get a lot of action at the beginning and end of the work week?”

  “Play obtuse if you want. It’s obvious why Chris left you, and just know every single person in this room thinks you look desperate and pathetic tonight.”

  Damn. Obtuse, desperate, and pathetic? I wonder if she’s hiding a mean girl’s thesaurus in her clutch?

  I’m trying to think of any kind of comeback when someone else beats me to the punch.

  “Not everyone. I think she looks gorgeous.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand in recognition, and I don’t even have to turn around to know who is talking. Which, as it would turn out, is something I’ll be forever grateful for. Instead of looking over my shoulder, I get to watch as the color drains from Courtney’s face, and her jaw almost hits the floor. “Kevin’s looking for you, Court.”

  At the mention of her nickname, the shock disappears so quickly, and if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own two eyes, I would’ve never believed it happened. Her narrowed eyes focus back on me for a second, like I’m the one who called her the name. Then, like watching an ugly caterpillar transform into a beautiful butterfly, her snarl turns into a million-dollar smile, and her posture improves so much, I’m worried I might get taken out by her nipples. “Thanks, Gavin.” Even her voice is different! Like a bad imitation of Marilyn Monroe, and although I definitely don’t like her, even I cringe with embarrassment for her.

  She turns to walk away, and for some reason I might never know, I yell after her, “Finish talking later, Court?” Her faltering steps as she sets out to find Kevin is the only clue she heard me.

  “Mr. Pope to the rescue again—” I turn to offer him a drink, but when I face him, the only thing going through my head are thoughts about how fine this man is. Because sweet lawd, he’s fine.

  His hair is short on the sides but longer and combed back on the top. He could maybe do with a shave, but the scruff on his chin looks so delicious, all I want to do is lick him to see what it feels like under my tongue. His bright blue eyes are watching me as I try to remember what I was going to say, and the crooked smile that crosses his face as seconds pass by without me saying anything tells me he knows what I’m thinking. But all that smile does is draw my attention to the deep V at the t
op of his full lips, which acts as an arrow to the almost hidden dimple in his chin.

  Are sexy chins even a thing? Or is Gavin just that hot?

  He’s super fucking hot.

  “You all right there?” His voice snaps me out of my trance.

  “Yup. Fine, I’m totally, one hundred percent fine. Totally, completely A-okay.” When I’m finished rambling, his grin is no longer crooked, now it’s full-blown cocky . . . and still hot.

  Dammit.

  “Got it. You’re fine.”

  “Whatever, Pope. I was going to ask if you wanted a shot with me, but now I’m just asking Naomi and Dre.” And like the mind readers they are—or friends aware of the tequila crutch I use in uncomfortable situations—when I turn to them, Dre hands me a lime and points to the shots lined up on the bar.

  But instead of three, there are four.

  For a second, I think they might’ve been genius enough to order two for me, but my dream is squashed when I see Dre hand Gavin a lime. Which is really too bad, because if this is just the beginning of my night, I’m going to need a lot more liquid courage than I had anticipated.

  Twelve

  One other small detail Naomi failed to tell me when she convinced me to come to this godforsaken event: I still have to walk in the show.

  Here’s something not many people know about me—I have terrible stage fright. The only reason I agreed to do this before was because Chris was going to be next to me, being his normal, obnoxious, spotlight-loving self, and I was going to float down the runway beside him and nobody was going to notice me. But, seeing as Chris and I aren’t together anymore, my plan has been shot to hell. Now, not only do I have to walk alone, but Courtney put Chris and Ava right in front of me. Guess who loves girlfriends now?

  Waiting backstage, the feeling in my feet comes and goes from the absurd/bordering-on-dangerous number of shots I’ve consumed over the last hour. My breathing is ragged, partly from nerves about walking in the spotlight, partly from how tight the leftover dress Courtney handed me is. And, of course, I’m stuck staring at my ex-boyfriend’s hand plastered on the ass of the woman he cheated on me with.